Star-Crossed Strings of Fate
by The 0dd 0ne
Summary: [Formerly: Star-Crossed] You shouldn't have screamed out, darling. You can't afford more blood on your hands. And the Boy With the Bread shouldn't have any on his. /or/ Blonde shouldn't be the right color, Gale. Merchant eyes shouldn't be so enchanting. Porcelain dolls like Prim are not to be played with while her sister suffers in her place. [everlark] & [grim] AU R&R Hiatus
1. Sinking Slips

Scarlet & earsplitting screams fill her nights. Silver slashes through faceless, nameless tributes. She never listened long enough to catch _their_ names & she didn't watch close enough to see _their_ features. To her, _they_ had to be targets. Who _they_ had been before couldn't mean a thing to her. Emotional attachment would have been reckless. Maybe it seems malicious, distraught, but she suffers enough as the Girl on Fire.

As the youngest victor.

Small, almost fragile looking, Katniss Everdeen wipes beads of icy sweat from her forehead with clammy hands.

"Prim," her voice cracks, it is still too high for that of a killer, she thinks. Her bare feet touch the cold nurturing hardwood floor, her arms trembling on her mattress. A tear rolls down her cheek as she lifts her knees to her chest. She ducks her head into them, letting her loose, dark hair fall around her, enclosing her. "Prim!" She calls again, choking on a sob.

Small thuds echo in the empty halls. Thuds even smaller than those that follow her footsteps. Even though her head is buried in her knees, she can see light flooding the room before arms far too thin wrap around her. "It's okay, shh, they're gone, it was a nightmare," Primrose Everdeen whispers into her older sister's ear. The petite blonde still remembers when it was her who had the nightmares, all the times Katniss would embrace her, stroking her golden locks as she hummed lullabies.

But these are the bad nights.

The nights when Katniss can't bare to study herself in the mirror.

She knows that if she did, a pale girl, far too thin & much smaller than other girls her age, would glare back with red rimmed eyes & tear trails glistening on her cheeks. And at 14, Katniss Everdeen cannot stand to look at someone so ruthless & selfish.

_They_ had families too. _They _had little sisters who need them too. _They_ had hopes & dreams too.

But _they_ don't have those things any more. Not since the 72nd Hunger Games at least.

Katniss Everdeen came out of that arena, cold, trembling, & sobbing at 12, the victor of 23 other kids with families & moms & dads & siblings. And she will not let Prim become one of _them. _Not with their pale, dead skin & glossy eyes frozen in horror.

Prim who has just turned 12.

Prim who is old enough to be Reaped.

* * *

His blonde hair clings to his forehead in the dark of night. He can hear drops of water collecting in the rusted bucket. He may be the baker's son, but he still lives in District 12. _Drip. Drip. Dripdrip._ Part of him wants to groan or mash his head into his pillow but he knows better.

Instead, his blue eyes glance out his slightly cracked window - what time is it? Proper clocks are a luxury only the rich can afford, but judging by the pale pink & orange trickling into the lightening black, it's nearing dawn. He can tell it isn't yet because the black is too cold & dead for rapidly closing in dawn.

Then, he can help his father fix the leaking roof.

Peeta Mellark traces his tongue over his cracked lips. He sits up in his bed, propping himself up on his elbows. He can feel the slight throb of his left eye. His mother had hit him a while ago. Burnt bread, like that time 5 years ago.

Peeta still remembers it like yesterday.

He remembers everything about her.

She had been curled into a ball, fisting the soaked fabric of her clothing in the icy rain. He knew what had happened. There had been an accident in the mines, her father . . . She was 9. She was 9 & there she was, starving to death in the freezing storm. She had a younger sister, 7, & a mother whose sullen eyes had once been crisply sapphire.

And he was in love with her.

So he did the only thing that had made sense.

Drop.

Burn.

_Hit._

"Feed it to the pig!" _She_ had screamed.

Peeta had let the door shut behind him, checked that _she_ was off to curse him in private.

Gulp.

Breathe.

Toss.

Right at her feet. _Both_ slices. They were only charred on the outside, he knew. They were still completely edible. He had cooked them just long enough. Besides, from the the look in her grey eyes, she was overjoyed anyways. What would she care if the bread was burnt? He remembers waiting just long enough to see her slowly crawl to the bread, never breaking eye contact with him. He had nodded, pressed his fingers to his lips. She had quickly collected them, tucking them under her shirt. He was sure that the rolls burned her skin. Worry pushed his feet forward a few steps. She had stood, shaking, her eyes watering & gleaming with gratefulness & hope.

Walk.

Stay.

Kiss.

Her lips, warmer than he could have imagined, pressed to his bruising cheek. She herself was much smaller than him. A breathy "thank you" so slight, he may have imagined it. He couldn't be sure. It sounded so vulnerable, so much more than she ever had. He still ponders if it had been voiced.

Then, she was gone.

He knew that he had stood there, dumbly, too long by the shrill call of his mother.

He also knew that Katniss Everdeen had just kissed him.

* * *

It is not a good morning to be a victor.

She questions wether there is _ever_ a good morning to be a victor for a second but lets that thought slide away into obscenity. It is stupid to linger on trivial matters. There are two glass bowls waiting in the square. Two strings are about to be cut, & two balloons prepared to sink. Who knows if it is lead or sticky crimson that outweighs them. All she needs to know today is that she is one of the three who have let the filling seep out through thick skin.

Where is her little duck?

"Prim?" She is tentative. She knows she will be greeted by big, watery Merchant's eyes.

A sniffle.

"It's okay, Prim," she whispers, her hair is yet to be braided.

_Swayswaysway._

"They're not gonna pick you," she tries to be sincere, she wants to be.

She does not know which sheets will be drawn.

"You're name is in there once," fact, cold, hard fact; Primrose Everdeen is only printed once.

The odds _are_ in her favor.

She bundles her little sister in her arms. "It's okay, Prim," she repeats.

"You're name was only in there once," Prim whispers.

Katniss cannot deny this.

She hadn't signed up for tesserea. Gale had taught her to hunt at 10 & hunting brought in enough to get by.

"There are more kids now, more names to pick, little duck, they're not gonna pick you," Katniss murmurs, tucking in the tail of Prim's dress.

She almost believes herself this time.

"And if they do?" Katniss' grip tightens. She can't think like that - _won't._

But she knows the answer.

_Volunteer_.

_I_ _volunteer as tribute._

It's whether or not she would be allowed that scares her.

* * *

Peeta cannot help but hate his odds.

Peeta Mellark is printed on too many slips. More than most boys his age. _More than some of the 16 year olds,_ he bitterly reminds himself. Even the ones from the Seam with too many mouths to feed. But thankfully, not more than Gale Hawthorne with his 30 something entries.

5 tesserae for 3 years added to the 3 automatic entries.

Why would a baker's son need tesserae?

It helped his brothers. And the bakery.

The grain, though poor, has always been enough to feed the animals. And, in his father's hands, enough to at least make its way into the cheap bread.

His father who does not know of the tesserae his mother lies of.

The odds are not in his favor. Not with the piling tesserae at least. And he cannot survive in an arena. He is just a broad shouldered 14 year old boy. Just the baker's son. He is charismatic & kind, likable most certainly, but he knows not of violence nor survival.

Maybe Katniss could emerge victor at 12, but she had already known how to kill. She had promised to her sister.

He is no Girl on Fire.

He is just the Boy With the Bread.

He's heard Katniss murmur of him to Madge Undersee during school. She has always called him the Boy With the Bread.

She remembers.

His lips are still cracked. They are always cracked. It bothers him, no matter how many times he wets them, they are cracked. He feels a drop of water balanced on his lower lip. Whether it is a tear or a droplet from the leaking roof his father has let sit, Peeta doesn't know.

And it doesn't matter.

He could be heading to his grave today.

One wrong pinch, one tug & he could be sentenced to life. Silently, he prays that Effie Trinket will be kind enough to pull another's name in his place. But he know that the odds are not in his favor.

Peeta Mellark is printed too many times for her fingers to not pull his slip.

* * *

"Ladies first."

Click.

Katniss hates the way those heels click against the stage.

Click.

The chair she has been given is painfully uncomfortable.

Click.

The hard seat is still not comfortable as she shifts.

Click.

Effie pulls a crinkled slip. The sun beats down on her skin as she unfolds it, clearing her throat.

Her painted lips form an 'o' before the crisp name leaves her lips.

And when it does, Katniss almost screams.

"Primrose Everdeen."

A little blonde girl with Merchant's eyes stands still as her heart stops.

_Katniss lied._

The odds were _not_ in her favor.


	2. And the Pieces Cry Out

_Snipsnipsnip._

It takes a moment for Katniss to register the cut balloon string.

_Primrose Everdeen._

But that can't be right. One time - _one_ time. Just like her.

The words must be out of her throat before she realizes it. Everyone is staring, Prim is crying - those tear stained cheeks are heartbreaking as she screams. What did you say, Katniss?

She hears hushed murmurs - it's just clippings from their sentences: victor, volunteer, possible.

Katniss volunteered.

One of their precious gemstones threw herself into the mud.

Prim screams something & she's running, she's running to her sister. She flies past the peacekeepers effortlessly, they're all too busy staring at their victor. Small hands tug at Katniss' dress, pleads, sobs, whispered I love you's. _Don't go. You can't go._ But Katniss knows what has happened.

The Reaping was rigged.

Because she defied the Capitol, this is her punishment. This is exactly what she was afraid of. _One_ in thousands, & they chose Prim. The little sister of District 12's first victor in 22 years. The victor who openly questioned the Games & _honored_ those she killed. Crowns of the katniss for which she was named, a light kiss to the forehead, peacefully shut eyes, sometimes even a bouquet. At the time, they had just been actions of regret - committed solely because she saw Prim in their cries, Gale in their struggles, her mother in their hopeless eyes,_ the Boy With the Bread in their hesitation. _But they had sparked riots.

_"He's dead . . . He's dead. He's dead because of me . . . I killed someone. Oh, God, I killed someone. What gave me the right to take his life? Why should I get to play God? He was just like me, he was scared & alone & he just wanted to go home . . . I hate these Games, I hate what they make people. I didn't even know him, & I killed him. What if he had a little sister too? What will what I just did do to his family? Why should I get to that to them? Why should the Games make people do that to people they don't know? . . . I hate this, I hate this . . . I wanna go home, I wanna see _Prim_ again."_

She silently damns herself for uttering her little sister's name. No, they would have left her alone if they didn't think she was cherished.

That was stupid to say, Katniss. That was the wrong thing to say. _Especially_ when the Capitol is focused on her, & who else was there to turn to? She had just killed someone for the first time in her 12 years. Their darling Katniss was falling apart & crying & trembling in someone, the other tribute from her District whose name she's suppressed's, arms. There was no occurring blood bath or anything of the sort. She was the only choice, the only thing entertaining.

And now she pays the price.

"There's no rule against it," Haymitch says, "she can volunteer." A sober Haymitch is a somber one.

But he's right.

A silence falls among District 12. Never, not in a million years, had they even imagined the Capitol taking her away from Prim again.

Prim's arms shake around her sister. She will not lose her again. She cannot.

But Gale has other plans. He pulls Prim away from Katniss, his eyes watering as he clutches the blonde girl. Katniss locks eyes with him, mouthing something. He doesn't know what, his eyesight is too blurry, but he does the only reasonable thing. His fingers intertwine with Prim's, whispered delicacies escaping his lips but muffling in her hair. He hears her hitching breath calming but knows he needs to clean her face of tears. His fingers catch them all.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

The way they roll off his finger tips is so incredulously loud he almost cringes.

She goes limp in his arms & he wants to scream. Limp. **Limp.** Limp as a corpse. But he bites his tongue instead & focuses on how tiny she is, a porcelain doll out of place in a crude brute's arms. He reminds himself of how much smaller she must look in his arms. After all, he makes Katniss, strong, willful, rebellious Katniss, looks positively tiny. How dainty does gentle, nurturing, loving Prim look with him? His District's treasure must be palm sized in comparison to him.

Effie says something he doesn't catch as he carries Prim, bridal style, because fragile Prim is struggling to breathe, yet alone walk, back to the crowd who wish goodbye to Katniss with three simple fingers. A painful gesture that he shields from wide, merchant eyes. His fingers cannot bare to find his lips & push through his silent misery to stand tall as a wistful plea. Then her hand is in a bowl again & her nails scratching paper death wishes is the loudest kind of silence he has ever heard.

_Snip._

He hears the scissors snip through a string long before he dares to look up to see whose balloon is loose.

"Peeta Mellark."

He knows that name. He knows that boy. He knows what Peeta Mellark did for Katniss.

Peeta is horrified. His brothers will not scream out for him as Katniss did for Prim. Familial love only goes so far.

His eyes dart, looking for anything but the foundation of sticky crimson he approaches. He can feel grey, Seam eyes set on him. Those eyes are a reminder of the debt she owes the Boy With the Bread.

And he is painfully aware of this.

So he finds someone else's eyes to meet. The same eyes they all have. But something in _his_ eyes is so much more broken yet willful. Peeta finds Gale's eyes in the crowd. And if he looks down, he'll find Prim's pleading eyes. And then he'll break like a toy. Like the pawn he is about to become in their Games.

His feet carry him to his destination too fast.

Breathe.

Greet.

**. . .**

**Bleed.**

_And the pieces cry out._


	3. These Bleeding Eyes

_Oh, and a quick note: this story tied with _Close Boundaries_ for the new chapter, each receiving 3 reviews that qualified._

_Date of next holiday gift contest: February 14th, 2014_

* * *

Merchant eyes take in her thin outline. Everything about her screams Seam. From her grey eyes to her dark locks. And it all screams beautiful. Agonized. Broken. But beautiful.

And he can see that her Seam eyes bleed.

He wonders if his Merchant eyes bleed.

Probably.

Her hand, small & trembling, is out. Vulnerable. She has been forced to put a piece of her out for his taking. For all she knows, he could kill her in a few days. For all she knows, he could look her in the eyes & slit her throat by the end of the week. And yet there her hand is, out, right in his reach. If he can get a grasp on her, she knows he can lead her to her slaughter.

It is now that she feels stupid for that time all those miserable years ago when she pressed her cracked lips to his bruising cheek. She was young & far too naïve. Why was she so naïve? Had her father not been _killed_ mere months before? Had the Games not taught her that he was potentially her murderer?_  
_

It is now that she remembers the way he had looked into her eyes so sincerely with concern. He had cared. She had never even spoken to him & he had cared. Why had he cared? She still does not know, even if her father had been killed in those cursed mines & she had been sprawled out on such a pitiful death bed, he did not know her. They were classmates, nothing more. So _why_ had he cared? She hadn't even pondered it at the time, the burning warmth pressed to her caved in stomach had been too precious to let die & the sincerity in his eyes had been too selfless to not thank. Had she openly said thank you though?

But his hand takes hers before she can bring herself to remember - what does it matter anyways?

She may have brought her lips to the small mound forming upon his cheek as thanks but no mere thank you could _ever_ repay the 3 lives she is indebted to him.

She notes that his hand is warm & rough; probably from years of being licked by eager flames. How can his hand be so warm when winter has swept over her body?

She can count every crack in his quivering smile. She wonders how he can even fake a smile knowing that he is a pig to the slaughterhouse.

"You can cry, you know. They won't be stupid enough to peg you as weak." Something about just how stupid, how simple minded, how _right_ he is **breaks** her.

Maybe she _should_ stay strong. Maybe she _should_ remember that this is _live_ on national TV. But maybe she should remember that they already know how strong she is.

One second her feet are firm under her trembling corpse - she cannot be the optimist here - the next she is flung into him. He doesn't catch her, in a sense. In a sense, he just breaks her fall. But in essence, he catches her. And he doesn't flinch at the contact.

It takes him a moment to respond like he should. His body cannot keep in pace with his mind today. But that moment costs him everything.

Respond.

Hold.

Love.

And when her presence is lifted from him as she has mended the fracture, he can feel his eyes bleed for a fleeting second. But the second is over too quickly to be burnt into his brain. And then Effie is feigning joy as she announces them the Tributes of District 12.

He doesn't think anything can kill him more than the horror in Prim's wide, Merchant eyes. At least, not until Katniss' hand curls into his - the fracture not as mended as he had thought.

Then his eyes bleed.

* * *

Gale walks her into the Justice Building. Her mother is there too, but she is reverting into a shell again. Prim can do nothing to coax her out. She is helpless.

Only Katniss can return their mother again.

It's another blow at poor, sweet little Prim.

"You aren't alone, Prim," Gale whispers, his hand squeezing hers.

Her breath hitches. He does that to her a lot. Too often. Just like how she catches herself staring at him, it shouldn't happen so much. He's _Gale._ He's 4 years older than her. And she knows he likes Katniss. She can see it in the way he stares at her when he thinks no one is looking. Besides, he is supposed to something of a big brother to her.

"I know," she breathes out. Her head falls into place against him. It feels right. This must be her place. Too bad her place is not his place as well.

He tenses for a moment. This should feel different. His heart shouldn't take a moment to settle back behind his ribs. His lips shouldn't tug up so much at the corners. But they do.

"I need to talk to Peeta," he tells her, "tell Catnip I love her, tell her I'll take care of you, tell her I wish I could see her." She may be innocent & terrified as her sister's blood is spilled time & time again in her eyes, but she can hear how broken he is.

Prim is silent for a moment. What, oh, God, what, could Gale have to say to Peeta Mellark that is so important he wouldn't tell Katniss everything she needed to hear? "Okay." She knows her voice cracks. She knows she's choosing the wrong answer. No. Why would she agree to this? Her big sister needs to hear "I love you" from Gale. Not her. Katniss _knows_ Prim loves her. She needs to know _Gale_ loves her.

Prim knows she hasn't caught on yet. Katniss is oblivious to love. She's never noticed Seam eyes admiring her before. She's never noticed Merchant eyes following her before. Maybe that's a good thing though. Maybe it would hurt too much for her to know of affection she holds.

"Thank you," his voice is broken for a second. And then his lips find the crown of her head. His lips leaves blazing hope in his wake.

And she can feel a tear trickle down her cheek. _God._

She silently prays for oxygen's return. Just look at what those Seam eyes do to her.

* * *

"I love you," is the first thing out of her mouth.

Then she captures her little sister in trembling arms.

"I love you, Prim," she repeats. It's obvious. She knows that. Why else would she throw her life aside?

"I love you, too," Prim sobs, clinging on. "So does Gale, & he swore he'd take care of . . . Of me."

"He's not visiting?" Betrayal slivers up her spine.

"He can't - he wanted to, but he can't, he said . . . Something, something about Peeta. He needed to tell Peeta something." Prim can't help but feel as if she is pushing the blade in deeper.

"Okay . . . Just, just eat, eat & be safe. I love you, I love you. Please, don't do anything stupid, okay, Prim? Promise me you won't do anything stupid," Katniss pleads, holding her sister's shoulders.

"I won't, I promise," the blonde girl nods, returning to her sister's arms.

"And, M - Mom - " it stings to call someone who can leave so easily 'Mom' again " - _don't_ blackout again, I need you to stay with Prim, no matter what. She needs you again . . . I need you." If she didn't know how much she needed to say it, Katniss would never even think it. "I need you to stay strong like last time, I promise, I . . . I'll do everything I can to win. Okay? Stay with Prim, it doesn't matter what you see, stay with her, okay? I . . . I love you, Mom." She is breaking. She is breaking & she is scared.

Katniss will not make the same mistake as last time. Last time, she didn't remind her mother that she _does_ love her - or at least holds some form of deep affection made from a dependence that had existed for years for her. She only whispered her fear to Prim. And she came far too close to regretting that mistake - she shivers at the memory of jagged steel pressed against her dry throat & the mocking eyes of a career whose blood clings to her hands.

"I will, Katniss, I won't. I love you," her mother says, embracing her eldest child. Cling tight, you never know when your little girl will be buried.

* * *

The Boy With the Bread cannot think of a single reason why Gale Hawthorne would visit him. _Him_ over _Katniss._

It's a strange thought. How could it possibly be true?

"I know we aren't friends or anything, but I know you care about Katniss. You wouldn't have given her the bread if you didn't," Gale says, tentatively walking over to the blonde boy.

"I do," Peeta whispers, his voice cracking at the memory.

"So, if you care about her . . . Protect her. Protect her for Prim, please, Mellark, just please get her home," the taller boy begs. Peeta hates the way those Seam eyes bleed. He hates the way he sees Katniss in them. Strong. Willful. Rebellious.

"I will. I don't have much reason to come home, but she deserves to." Something about the way this is said so plainly, as if it's normal, makes Gale want to cringe. The Boy With the Bread cannot simply believe this. Surely, _someone_ needs him. But now that he thinks about it, the Mellarks will get over it if their son dies. The Boy With the Bread has no girlfriend that Gale has ever noticed. His friends may grieve but they will move on. There is no one to be broken beyond fixing if the Boy With the Bread is laid to rest.

"If you go back on your word, Mellark, I'll - " but Peeta has no interest in what Gale will do to him.

"I _swear_ on my _blood,_ Gale, I swear she'll see 15." The Boy With the Bread is not someone Gale Hawthorne ever thought he would trust, but there is a fire in his bleeding Merchant eyes that is too _real_ to be ignored.

When there are no words left to describe our agony, we trade the vowels & consonants we have not formed for barren warmth & a desperate grasp for life.

Gale.

_Hugs._

Peeta.

This boy, this 14 year old boy whom he has never spoken to before today, is completely willing to give his life for _hers._ The hug is much shorter than that of Katniss - 6 seconds, he had counted. Gale's hug is brief, momentary. It simply existed for fleeting moments as some form of exchange.

But fleeting moments are enough for his eyes to bleed out.

* * *

Hold back that follow or favorite,

And trade it for a review,

It'll serve as feedback & motivation for my writing tricks,

And otherwise, I might just slap you.

- Queen Alison the Obstinate


	4. All That is Left

The car ride is uncomfortable; neither tribute willing to break the silent spell. The space allowed by the vehicle is cramped & far too little. It doesn't help that it seems to shrink with each passing second.

Peeta squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel his hands trembling. Hands he is meant to kill with now.

His shaking hands are distracting. Eye catching in all the wrong ways.

"Here," she says, her voice terse. She places her hands over his trembling ones. It's strange & far too out of character for everything he knows about her. But he accepts it, deciding it was bothering her far too much.

He remembers his promise.

This is the girl is he meant to watch after. To do that, he needs to gain her trust. She has never trusted anyone outside of her family & Gale's.

. . .

The silence falls again, her hands stilling his.

What did he except? One word to spark an enthralling conversation? Not likely on their way to the slaughterhouse. He doubts she really wants to talk to him or be anywhere near him. That hug was a moment of weakness, a brief loss of sanity & composure, he was just the closest anchor to hold her down.

He will never be anything more than an anchor to her.

But she will continue to be everything to him.

Damn the unfairness of love. Damn the unfairness of the Capitol & their cruel, twisted Games. Damn his snipped strings.

* * *

Prim stares down at the loaf of bread before her.

Nothing makes sense.

Nothing is right.

Now that Katniss has been sent off again, it sinks in. No tears are forced to fall out, no screams come pouring, no thrashing left. Silence. Utter, horrifying silence.

This.

Is.

Real.

And cruel. And horrible. And awful. And wrong. And her fault.

_Prim's_ fault.

If her stupid name hadn't been pulled, if it had just stayed put, lost among the other scared girls, Katniss would be out of danger. She would be going to give advice. There would be no imminent threat of death at every turn.

The little blonde girl turns to look at Gale. He can't speak anymore either. What is there to say? No apology, no question, no statement, no rambling. There is nothing left to be said.

She already asked, he already answered.

Silence is all that's left to them.

But the words echo still.

_("Do I look like her?")_

_("Somewhat.")_

* * *

Katniss doesn't expect her family to tune in to see them at the train station. She doesn't want them to.

They don't deserve to.

Not again.

"Smile," she tells him out of the corner of her mouth, faking one of her own. It's horrible & it makes her head hurt but she feels nauseatingly dizzy anyways.

She doesn't check to see if he does, decides she doesn't need to see the pain stretched across his lips. Feeling the nightmare on hers is miserable enough.

It's all too familiar, flashes of light & blurry faces. All so noisy, so bubbly & full of wild, chaotic life. She hates it all. She hates that she can't tune it out, that it disrupts the silence she wants back.

The hate, the contempt, the bitterness, they all build up & boil inside. She throws kisses into the crowd, silently pretending they're knives. She's not bad at throwing knives, but she doesn't get enough imaginary kills to contain the hatred properly. She needs an anchor.

_The Boy With the Bread._

She slips her hand into his, touch reminds her of humanity. It's why she calls for Prim in the dead of night when _they_ haunt her.

He's still unusually warm. He's also still shaking.

He'll never be able to kill anyone with shaking hands.

She cringes at the thought. The Games made her think such horrible, dreadful thoughts. She still plans how to use things as weapons, still spends nights up, listening for _them._ Even now that they've been laid to rest in the real world, they stalk her every thought.

She releases his hand, remembering that warmth turns to fire & fire burns you.

* * *

"It's Thursday." His voice startles her. She'd forgotten anyone else was present.

Hesitating, she opens her mouth as if to say yes. At the last second, as the first consonant is beginning to form in her throat, she shuts her mouth & nods.

Gale frowns. She still won't speak. She hasn't since he answered her question all those hours ago. Closing his burning eyes, he opens his mouth, determined to make her speak. Then, she turns around, dropping the sponge she'd been cleaning with. Her eyes look broken. Burnt out, sunken, broken. He sweeps her into a warm hug. No amount of apologies will fix this. No amount of words will rattle her.

Those 4 words broke Primrose Everdeen.

And he has to fix her.

* * *

_If you've read _Nothing Alike_ & get the question, don't worry too much. I still haven't decided exactly how to end this so, everyone's fate isn't completely set. She might actually live, I really didn't like her fate in Mockinjay so . . . Yeah. Then again, I could kill Katniss if I really wanted too, so, there's also that. Actually, maybe. I could totally do that if I wanted to, it could turn out really well, too. But, for now, no one's fate is sealed. Well, except these 3 characters who I know exactly what to do with. Just try & guess who, though._

* * *

Hold back that follow or favorite,

And trade it for a review,

It'll serve as feedback & motivation for my writing tricks,

And otherwise, I might just slap you.

- Queen Alison the Obstinate


End file.
